


Split Lips

by FredGeorge123



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Autistic Duncan Quagmire, Autistic Isadora Quagmire, Autistic Quigley Quagmire, Duncan has panic attacks, Gen, Quigley isn't self assured
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-02-04 17:58:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18609628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FredGeorge123/pseuds/FredGeorge123
Summary: Part I: Quigley Quagmire lives in District 7 with his siblings, Duncan and Isadora before he was reaped for the 74th Hunger Games. He doesn't expect to win and knows when he dies. Except he doesn't die.





	1. Chapter 1: The Reaping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a seemingly normal morning. I wake up far earlier than anybody else in the house, partly because I have a habit of waking up early and partly because everyone else has a habit of waking up late. I fell asleep at on the floor sharpening some sticks into something sharper. It’s not as if the sticks are going to run out. District 7, the place I live is practically half forest since it was the district for lumber. It wasn’t the ideal place to live. I guess nothing in Panem is ideal except the Capitol perhaps and even that perhaps only in thought about full bellies.

It’s a seemingly normal morning. I wake up far earlier than anybody else in the house, partly because I have a habit of waking up early and partly because everyone else has a habit of waking up late. I fell asleep at on the floor sharpening some sticks into something sharper. It’s not as if the sticks are going to run out. District 7, the place I live is practically half forest since it was the district for lumber. It wasn’t the ideal place to live. I guess nothing in Panem is ideal except the Capitol perhaps and even that perhaps only in thought about full bellies.

Personally I think I would like another District 9 or 12. Neither is heavily guarded nor particularly guarded. Although 12 is very poor. I picked up a lot of details about the districts and country and know the trail of forest but not in high definition. Even so the other forests were more ideal then the one in District 7 which is ironic and not ironic since District 7 is the lumber district. District 7’s forest is always crowded with people that there is no mystery, no thrill, no animals, no anything particular apart from trees and people. 

Animals were shy creatures and only a few that have adapted to humans were lucky. I have a pet fox, a lovely thing honestly, with beautiful fur and hypnotising eyes and a gorgeous tail. Well… at least I think they’re (I have no idea how to tell the gender of animals. I think it’s a she because of the fur which needed to be regularly cut ‘cuz it has something against staying short, although then again it has took ages for Carmelita Spats to grow her hair past her shoulders while it takes me only a couple of months, whatever, I am not sure of their gender) a lovely thing with beautiful fur, hypnotising eyes and a gorgeous tail. My triplet brother, Duncan, says they’re an overgrown rat. But they’re nothing like a rat. Sure their tail isn’t on the bushy side but apart from that? I’d like to know where he’s seen a rat with green eyes. He doesn’t even get out of the house.

They’re great company. I found them three years back and we became fast friends. Though I have to keep them away from other people in case they use them for fur. I would never. Or even eat any animals if I had a choice. But there’s only two choices; eat what you’ve got or die of starvation. When you don’t have a choice then you must force yourself to remember that’s it’s already dead. The animals go further and further into the woods but how much further could they go. Still the district was serious about its job (you had to be for many reasons) and they always made up for the space. Sometimes tree roots were tried to be taken out as well.

Usually mornings were when I had school. And once I got back then I did a few things here and there and then have work. It was mandatory for more than half the population above twelve years of age to go to work if they were in shape. There were different schedules. Five to ten AM were for chopping, carrying and arranging lumber. Ten AM to two PM were for the sorting out of lumber, which to send where, the quality and all that stuff. Two to five PM were for taking care of the trees. Five to seven PM were for taking goods like fruit and sap from the tree.  I work from five to seven PM. My siblings, Duncan and Isadora, worked from two to five PM.

But today wasn’t a workday. Today wasn’t a workday at all. Today was reaping day.

Every year there was a reaping day. Reaping day was when people came from the Capitol to the 12, formerly 13, districts. Every year a man named Ernest Denouement would come here and would pick a girl and a boy between the ages of twelve to eighteen to participate in the Hunger Games. The Hunger Games were a sort of ‘game’ invented by the Capitol. The Capitol was the ruling city in Panem and everything was according to them and they didn’t participate in the Hunger Games, just watched them.

I hate the damn Capitol. I hate them. They were pompous, self-centred frogs who couldn’t hurt a fly without their power which had nothing to do with themselves. But I guess you can’t actually say anything about them since if the word got around then you’d be punished.

Anyway, so twenty-four people altogether. All of them had to compete against each other. By compete they mean kill until just one was left. District 7 has six winners. I haven’t paid much attention to them though.

I spend most of my time up and around. Eventually my mother wakes up. My mother is an athletic person despite being in her forties. Apparently she was quite the dancer back in her old days. I can think of her as one if she were someone else. But as Quigley Quagmire all I can think of her is as the woman who I’ve never really known. My mother has a bony face and short hair. She’s of medium height and even built. She doesn’t dance anymore if she ever did. There are always festivals where people would dance. Not my mother. She’s sometimes too busy for them. My mother’s work keeps her busy. She doesn’t work with lumber though. She works at the grocery. She brings the goods from one place to another. It confuses me but I pay no mind to it. Today isn’t a workday so she decided to pay a visit to her friend. She’s often out of the house. There are days where we go to sleep without seeing her since the morning.

Apart from my mother it’s just Duncan and Isadora. Duncan and Isadora are my triplets. Isadora is the oldest by fifteen minutes. She’s sharp witted and spirited, getting into a lot of verbal fights, mostly with Carmelita Spats, a girl in our grade who is just as spirited and short tempered as Isadora but extremely arrogant and spiteful to Isadora’s confident and sharp witted. Carmelita makes it hard for anyone to get along with her but Isadora is way too similar in personality with just the right things clashing with each other and a bunch of differences. And that is what leads to mutual destruction. Or a lot of verbal fights and afterward rants. Either one. Isadora enjoys poetry but you can’t pursue a career in poetry. Well, not here anyway. Actually you can to an extent but it’ll be just like a tiny thing, tell some poems, write some poem, and not get any much money or fame. But anything could change.

Duncan’s the second by five minutes. He’s more quiet and relaxed than Isadora, and I. He prefers to not draw much attention and just be a part of the background. He also keeps Isadora in line during her fights with Carmelita. But Duncan isn’t a pushover or even very calm. He always puts in his two cents. And is annoyed by Carmelita’s existence. He cannot stand injustice but this isn’t the ideal place to have a moral compass the size of the country. Maybe once but not anymore. He’s journalist. You can pursue a career in journalism but there isn’t anything interesting particularly. But Duncan has a shot.

As for me? I’m Quigley Quagmire, the youngest triplet (but does it matter?). I am fifteen years old. It’s already established that I live in District 7. There isn’t much to say about me. Maybe because when a person themselves think about themselves then it’s harder but I’m not particularly interesting. Can’t be interesting here in District 7. Will I ever stop blaming District 7? Nope because it’s District 7’s fault. Actually it’s the Capitol’s fault but I could have more personality in somewhere else. My surroundings don’t allow me much. But I’m Quigley Quagmire and I’m me and I live in District 7. Not self-assured like my siblings but nobody needs to know that. I have an over active mind but I live with it. I wish I could go places. I am interested in Cartography and have already made a map of the whole District and small places here. But there are many maps and cartography is most definitely not a career here.

I sigh.

I finally change out of my ugly pajamas. I take out a long sleeved maroon plaid shirt and indigo jeans. The jeans were my father’s when he was younger. It was uncommon to have jeans back then. And expensive. But nobody bought jeans anyway apart from anyone on the richer side. Nowadays everyone has something more or less decent. And these jeans are mine. My jeans are extremely worn out from being old and ripped and patched up again. I don’t plan on doing anything rough so it’s safe. Anyway, everyone wants to look nice in case they were going to be the one to get their death sentence.

I comb with hair properly with a drop of oil so it does lie back or at least straight. I look into the mirror. I guess I look fine. I’m of medium height and even built, slim but not skinny, straight posture but not broad. I have dark hair, olive skin and bright green eyes. It’s rare to have green eyes, especially in District 7 where most people have brown or hazel eyes. The people fit in with their surroundings. In every district, honestly. My eyes are not just green but bright green which makes me and my siblings stand out. District 4 is where green eyes like mine are usually and should be found.

Finally I decide to take a stroll around the District before the Reaping. In my satchel I put in some carrots and I already have all my usual stuff in there. Like my knife, pencils, pens, stationary, commonplace book (although anyone would scoff at me calling it a commonplace book), sketchbook, matches and a pocket watch.  It’s an old broken pocket watch that doesn’t even work but I like it. It doesn’t hold much value but I still like it.

I find a familiar figure waiting under an oak tree. Nobody touches that oak tree. I don’t know why but nobody cuts that oak tree. Not a single axe has marred it. It has been here since before I could remember but nobody cuts it.

A red headed girl was under this oak tree. Her grey eyes spot me before my green ones spot her. She’s shorter than me and the daughter of the mayor. Being the daughter of the mayor means she’s had a good life, and she also has had good clothes. She, like me, has already changed into her good clothes. She is wearing an apple green dress with shimmery ruffles, sleeveless but joint to her neck with the fabric at her collar see-through and ribbon tied at her neck, up to her knees with burgundy leggings and black heels. Her wavy hair weren’t in ringlets but instead in a ponytail like every Reaping day. If I knew didn’t know better than I would have suggested I design her hair. I have clever fingers and when we were younger I used to want to make Isadora’s hair. Not that Isadora would let me. So instead I made Duncan’s hair. Didn’t have the same effect.

“Quigley Quagmire,” She acknowledged.

“Carmelita Spats,” I quirked a lip. She scoffed.

“Where are your cakesniffing siblings?”

“Must you always refer them as cakesniffing?”

“As the most popular, smartest, prettiest girl in the District and possibly the whole of Panem, I can. Isadora’s worth is not even dust on a slice of bread compared to mine yet she thinks that she has a right to talk to me as if we’re equals? While Duncan most definitely has no qualms against it? Most definitely.”

Why do I hang out with Carmelita Spats, when there are three very good reasons not to? Which are that, one, she is extreme self-centred and cannot stop complimenting herself, two, she hates everyone else and insults anyone and everyone, and, three, she absolutely despises my siblings whom I have an extremely good relationship, although I have yet to talk to them today.

I neither know that nor do I know why Carmelita Spats hangs out with me. We aren’t best friends or friends; at least I don’t think so. Carmelita has hated Isadora since forever and vice versa. We triplets weren’t easily separated so Duncan was always there to give his two cents. For some reason Carmelita has never bothered me. I would give in a cent of two but I wasn’t really annoyed by her.

Our whatever we have started a when we were eleven. I was paired up with Carmelita for a school project. Our teacher had formerly tried to get Isadora and Carmelita to pair up but it didn’t work. Duncan and Carmelita have also been paired up before. Duncan was usually rational but Carmelita made him want to punch a wall. Isadora cheered when he did. Anyway, Carmelita spent most of the time talking about herself with occasional remarks about other people. I gave up trying to stop her and just half listened half worked. We spent a significant amount of time together and after that group project Carmelita started to sometimes ask me over. More like demand me over but whatever. And slowly we became whatever ever we are. Isadora and Duncan prefer indoors so whenever they aren’t available I may or may not ask Carmelita. She has friends but she says that they are pretentious.

So Carmelita and I made our way over to where Ilia Thomas was. If you, someone underage, ever had anything to trade then you’d go to Ilia Thomas. She always knew who had what. Today was Reaping Day and Reaping Day was when everyone decides to get something or something else for a small feast. I had carrots which weren’t worth much but someone might feel kind today. And I also had a jar of maple syrup and blackcurrant jam. The maple syrup was from a maple tree while Duncan made the blackcurrant jam. The carrots, well, Quigley always believed you could never go wrong with carrots.

“Hey ITom,” Carmelita sneered. She calls Ilia Thomas ITom because her name starts with I and Thomas could be turned to Tom and it sounded like ‘item’ and Ilia Thomas is an expert at items and trading. Ilia doesn’t like Carmelita because she’s got money. Carmelita doesn’t like Ilia because Ilia is buff. Both of the girls were headstrong and admired themselves a bit too much for someone else not to. Ilia liked to intimidate people by her size and often bragged that if she got reaped then she’d be the eighth winner for the District. But nobody would want to be reaped. And nobody would ever volunteer, which means that if someone else was picked ten they’d say that they volunteer as tribute.

Ilia had only a few slips to her name- See you have your name entered once every year. When you’re eleven then you have one slip in the box from where they pick the names of the two tributes. Then when you’re twelve another slip with your name is put in there. Thirteen another, fourteen another, and on and on until you’re eighteen which is your last chance and then freedom from the Hunger Games. But… if you are starving then there is something you might do. And that something is entering your name in a slip once again for grain to last you a couple of months.

Since she isn’t poor, Carmelita has only five slips to her name. Ilia has quite a few but Ilia doesn’t have too many since she does work and so does her aunt and cousin whom she lives with. I have thirteen slips to my name. We four aren’t the poorest you’d find, there are so many who are way more better off than us. But our mother’s job doesn’t pay enough for three meals a day. Neither do our jobs. We three siblings get five copper pieces per month while our mother gets ten silver pieces per month (A/N: Bear with me. I don’t know how money works). Ten copper pieces equals to one silver piece. One copper piece will buy you a slice of bread. Fifteen buys us a dozen of eggs usually. As for mother’s salary? One silver piece could get you one whole chicken. So we usually buy one chicken and spend the rest on five loaves of bread, some corn to feed the chicken and a jar of jam.

Now put it together for one month. Every morning we have eggs. One egg each. And there are four of us. Not even four whole days and the eggs are finished. But we have the chicken whom we keep for up to week. One egg of its own makes four days. Then six-thirteen eggs depending if we cut the chicken a little late. Lasting us from one to three days. Five loaves of bread, twelve inches. Can make like fifteen slices of bread. Fifteen times five. Seventy five. Say that we had two slices of bread each day for tea. Not fully nineteen days. The jam is for about forty give or take serves if we limit of intake. And the chicken would last for a week if miracle occurred.

So the food I’d get for a month would be about six eggs, eighteen bread and jam serves and a fourth of a chicken. Of course you always get something here and there. There’s always carrots. I always manage to get carrots thank god. And if you ever want to trade ten you could hit up someone, and at times like those Ilia is someone good to have on your side. And Carmelita sometimes calls me over for tea and couldn’t care less whether I say that I am no hungry and will save these biscuits for later apart from scoffing and saying I am a brute. But, as Duncan said, it wasn’t enough for a growing human. So we put a slip with our name. Then? Well, we manage to get five bags of flour, enough to make bread to last us three months.

“Well, it’s the malfunction,” Ilia isn’t repetitive with insults like Carmelita.

“Hey Ilia,” I say cautiously.

“Quagmire. Didn’t expect to see you. Feeling lucky today?” she asked crossing her arms. Ilia works from five to ten AM.

“What’d someone give for carrots, maple syrup and blackcurrant jam?” I ask.

Ilia looked pleased. She grinned and patted me on the shoulder and gave me the information she knew I wanted. By twelve forty-three I managed to get an actual steak in exchange for jam, a bag of chopped vegetables for the maple syrup and cheese for the carrots. The steak was the most surprising. It was actual steak. It was fresh from the butcher and I couldn’t get my hopes high but there was nothing to say against it and I still couldn’t believe it because it was actual steak.

Carmelita walked off the town square while I decided to go to my siblings and mother and walk with them over there.

Isadora had her hair into a messy bun and was wearing a teal simple dress with white polka dots along with a white short and puff sleeved jacket while Duncan was wearing black pant and a white button up and a tie which Isadora tied up for him after arguing whether or not he’d wear it.

Duncan began talking about a book he read about textiles and contemplated on District 8 and Isadora and I poked him about the tie.

Peacemakers surrounded the town square and we went over to where all the people eligible for the Hunger Games were. We waved to our mother as if we were going to school and stood their wit pounding hearts. It’s one o’clock. Everyone is here. Carmelita with her friends who have fear clear on their faces. Carmelita is unusually quiet but everyone is and there is nothing surprising about it. It would be surprising if she wasn’t quiet. Even people who are crying aren’t crying too loud in case they jinx themselves. Nobody is allowed to skip the Reaping. Nobody unless you are most definitely 100% unable to come to the Reaping. And it will be checked if you are not. You’d be imprisoned.

There are banners hung around and the square looks quite nice. The aura of darkness could be smelt and makes each and every one of our stomachs churn and want to gasp for fresh air. But no one dares to do anything. The camera crews are on the rooftops of the surrounding shops. Twelve through eighteen-year-olds are called into roped areas marked off by ages, the oldest in the front, the young ones toward the back. Our mother is right beside us. Ilia Thomas is standing right in the front. I cannot see her face but I know it must be tense.

And there are those people. Those people who walk around and place bets. It’s repulsive, sickening and despicable. But I can’t stop them. They even slip past the Peacemakers. They put bets depending on the age and on their wealth. And on the reactions. We triplets have bets against us as well. Nobody believes there can be poor triplets who all survive through this.

On the stage there are four chairs. The mayor, Carmelita’s father sits on one. So does Ernest Denouement, who comes every year to our District for the tributes. Two of the past winners sit on either chair.

Just as the town clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to the podium and starts off with his speech but we wished that it went on forever. Just in case of your name being called out. It’s the same story every year. He tells of the history of Panem, a war which destroyed everything but out of the ashes Panem rose up. Thirteen Districts ruled by the Capitol. Then came the Dark Days, the uprising of the districts against the Capitol. Twelve were defeated, the thirteenth demolished. And it gave us the Hunger Games.

The rules of the Hunger Games are simple. In punishment for the uprising, each of the twelve districts must provide one girl and one boy, called tributes, to participate. The twenty-four tributes will be bound in a massive outdoor arena that could hold anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland. Over a period of several weeks, the competitors must fight to the death. The last tribute standing wins. Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one another while we watch — this is the Capitol’s way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy.

And it’s degrading as well as torturous, inhuman in two ways above others. The Capitol requires us to treat the Hunger Games as a festivity, a sporting event opposing every district against the others. The last tribute alive receives a life of ease back home, and their district will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food. All year, the Capitol will show the winning district gifts of grain and oil and even delicacies like sugar while the rest of us battle starvation.

“It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks,” intones the mayor. Then he reads the list of past District 12 victors. In seventy-four years, we have had exactly six winners. I realise that one of them is named Larry with a last name too complicated for me to repeat who is sitting there. The other is named Olivia Caliban. For some reason I don’t like the look of her. She looks normal but there is something that I just don’t like.   

Ernest Denouement, a man with joints standing out on weird angles, goes on a bit about what an honour it is to be here, although he looks bored.

 It’s time for the drawing. Ernest Denouement says as he always does, “Ladies first!” and crosses to the glass ball with the girls’ names. He reaches in, digs his hand deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip of paper. The crowd draws in a collective breath. It is absolutely silent yet through our pounding hearts heard harder than anything, one couldn’t hear a bomb.

Ernest crosses back to the podium. And he announces loud and clear the name.

Carmelita Spats.

This causes a collective shock.

Carmelita Spats.

Suddenly nobody is depending on chance. Everyone’s heart is clenching and scared. Isadora lets out a strangled moan. I can’t imagine how it would feel for her, with so many conflicting emotions and thoughts.

But it isn’t a walk in the park for me too. Whatever Carmelita and I have, friendship, acquaintanceship, awareness, association or whatever, Carmelita and I had something (platonic) and I couldn’t even rejoice that it wasn’t Isadora’s name.

I look at the mayor and… he couldn’t look more composed. I felt my heart tug. But before I could have any further thoughts Ernest Denouement calls for applause. Some people do clap, but nobody could be actually pleased. Although some people must be thinking that it was better Carmelita than another, since Carmelita was not a pleasant person generally. But I feel like after Isadora, Carmelita is the person I most wish it wasn’t

But it was.             

Ernest Denouement calls for any tributes. Nobody.

Carmelita makes her way to the stage, not saying a word. Suddenly she shouts.

“I’ll win the games! I am the smartest, bravest person here. The odds are in our Districts favour,” she boasts, livid with her chin up. Some people groan but I feel a surge of respect for Carmelita Spats.

Ernest Denouement is trying to get the ball rolling again. “It’s time to choose our boy tribute!” He plants one hand on her head as he crosses to the ball that contains the boys’ names and grabs the first slip he encounters. He zips back to the podium.

“Quigley Quagmire,” he announced.

I can just imagine the money being passed over. Nobody believed that all three of us poor triplets would make out alive. And they were right. Duncan was having a panic attack. He was prone to them ever since our father died. And I am glad for once. I do something I know that I wouldn’t in another situation. I grab Duncan in a way that worsens his predicament. I couldn’t bear if Duncan took my place. Family loyalty takes people only so far in our situation but I’m not taking any chances.

As Ernest calls for volunteers, nobody says anything. I leave Isadora to calm down Duncan. I stride up to the podium and stand there. I feel tears prickle my eyes but instead I look around. Forest after forest. Like I’ve always hated since there was no mystery about woods where there were nothing more than trees and people.


	2. Chapter Two: The Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don’t pay attention to anything else. I just stare numbly. Not at my siblings. Not at Carmelita. Not at my mother. Not at the other kids. Not at the other people. Not at the people exchanging bets. I stare at the forest. Forest after forest. Like I’ve always hated since there was no mystery about woods where there were nothing more than trees and people.

I don’t pay attention to anything else. I just stare numbly. Not at my siblings. Not at Carmelita. Not at my mother. Not at the other kids. Not at the other people. Not at the people exchanging bets. I stare at the forest. Forest after forest. Like I’ve always hated since there was no mystery about woods where there were nothing more than trees and people.

Everything else happens but I can’t pay attention to it. It’s still silent. My heart has dropped down. Perhaps I left it down where I was standing, still in shock about Carmelita and taking a second to register that I was to join her. My eardrums hurt and my head feels hollow. I am relieved that Duncan was prone to panic attacks. I hope that he’d never have one again but I am immensely glad at he didn’t get a chance to volunteer. Would he have volunteered? Perhaps, perhaps not. Nobody would blame him if he didn’t. And that’s a solid hard fact.

The ceremony passes too quickly. Carmelita and I are taken to separate rooms in the Justice building. I am free to wring my hands, a nervous tick that I have, because I am not handcuffed or anything. But there are Peacekeepers on every side of me. I couldn’t try to run, not that I would succeed if I did somehow escape their circle.

Once inside and in my room, I’m left alone. If I weren’t in the circumstances that I am in then I would marvel at the room. It’s the lushest and most elegant place I’ve ever been in, with sophisticated, tender carpets where one could just fall asleep on and never awaken and a couch made of extremely soft and pretty fabric and chairs made from chestnut and finely polished and designed. When I sit on the couch, I can’t help running my fingers over the fabric repeatedly. The soft fabric helps me to stay calm and control any nervous ticks. The time agreed for the tributes to say goodbye to their loved ones.

I don’t know whether to cry or not. Any sign of crying would make me look weak. There will be more cameras at the train station. Presentation is what gives people impressions. Good impressions would lead to sponsors, people who will give you something or another during the Games. I remember looking at myself in the mirror this morning. Physically I look absolutely normal with nothing to make me stand out. Okay, personality wise.

…

I hope I die right now.

My siblings are he first to arrive. Isadora flings herself around my neck and buries her head in my shoulders while Duncan falls in front of me and lays his head in my lap and hand around my waist. I shakily reach y arms around the two not knowing what to do.

For a few minutes, we say nothing. Duncan breaks the silence.

“It shouldn’t have been you here,” Duncan’s voice cracks. He looks shamefaced and is burning red but he looks into my eyes, mortified. “I-if I w-w-wasn-n’t weak then-”

I hold Duncan by the shoulders, my narrowed and determined green eyes meeting his wide and scared ones.

“No Duncan. No. Listen. It isn’t your fault and you must promise me that you will not spend any time thinking so. You are going to grow up and become a journalist which will pay you and Isadora and mother good. And you’ll take care of my fox who I still don’t know what to name,” I look deep into his eyes pleadingly and desperate. Duncan swallows and nods.

Suddenly Isadora screeches. I jump and Duncan flinches. She is livid, tears streaming down her cheeks and shaking with a turbulent amount of emotions. She pulls on her hair and is red.

“NONE OF YOU SHOULD BE HERE! NOBODY! IF ANYONE SHOULD BE HERE THEN IT SHOULD BE THEM WHO-”

Suddenly Duncan and I both grab Isadora, panicked and calm her down. Duncan’s always been more effective but this might be the last chance I get to see her. I ignore the voice that says that I’m not kidding anyone by saying might. Anything Isadora might say could get her punished.

“Isadora, please…” Duncan says, holding her hand. She’s quiet but still red.

“Isadora, for me,” I look into her eyes. Her green eyes meet mine. This does the trick. She slowly looks down and is resigned. Maybe going to die has its benefits. I guess it depends on who you are.

We’re silent again. I fear I might start to cry. But now all I feel is numbness. Nothing. No sadness, no anger, no fear. Just hollowness. Until Isadora whose emotions come turbulently and in a flash or Duncan who registers everything and sorts it out, my emotions sometimes take a while to hit me Perhaps it is for the best. Or perhaps it doesn’t matter. I’m too hollow and tired to think. Just hollowness? Hollowness of what? I am a tree, the symbol of my district but I am hollow, lacking any physical features that make me stand out and have no personality to help me in the slightest.

 “Remember when we’re twelve? And we had just found out that Ring Around the Roses was about something called the Black Plague,” Duncan starting off slowly and quietly.

“Of course,” I snigger.

Isadora starts her own memory, “Or when we were nine and I wanted to read some poems but you two always wanted to read stories by the Brothers Grimm again and again.”

“Yeah. You both liked Cinderella. I still don’t understand why…”

Duncan chuckled, “What’s not to like? I mean the animals friends-”

I continue, “-the tree mother-”

“-How horrifying her family is-”

“-Yet she still is hopeful-”

“-when later on the birds blind the sisters-”

“-How she dreams of being free-”

“-The beautiful three dresses-”

“-Her slippers-”

“-How she finally got to enjoy herself for one night-”

“-The heartbreaking moment when the sisters were going to cut the tree-”

“-Did I mention the birds blind the sisters?-”

“-How she finally escapes her evil family-”

Isadora laughs and tells us to shut up and that we haven’t changed at all.

“Love you two, Izzie,” I shove her slightly. Duncan reprimands us that we shouldn’t be shoving each other and we start shoving him.

A moment later we all are quiet again. The playful, familiar atmosphere fades away and we’re all silent remembering why we’re here.

Isadora looks like she wants to stay something but debates whether she should or shouldn’t. Even she takes a deep breath, “Quigley…” her voice is solemn and cracking a little. But she forced the words out. I look at her.

“Don’t give up hope,” she says her eyes dancing with some many emotions. She grabs the armrest of the couch trying to regain herself.

I’m confused for a second and then she’s trying to tell me to try to win. I furrow my brow and bit my lip but I say nothing.

I can’t win. Isadora must know that in her heart. The competition will be far beyond my abilities. Kids from wealthier districts, where winning is a huge honour, who’ve been trained their whole lives for this and fight to be the one to be the tribute representing their district.

“Yeah Quigley. If you manage to get an edge somehow then you could win… You’re quick at your feet and under pressure,” Duncan said, clasping my hands. I smile a half smile and promise that I would. 

Then the Peacekeeper is at the door, signalling our time is up, and we wrap our arms around each other tightly. I whisper what I love them and finally a tear falls to my cheek. I wipe it off and my siblings leave not leaving their sight off me until they are gone.

The door closes.

I bury my head in one of the velvet pillows as if this can block the whole thing out. Someone else enters the room, and when I look up, I’m surprised to see it’s Ilia. Ilia and I were acquaintances but I never would have thought that she would come to visit me. She looks uncomfortable, unlike her usually rough and assertive self. She has something in her hands. She walks up to me and stands still. For a few moments she doesn’t say anything but then she takes a sigh. She hands over the packet. I open it. It’s a few thick slices of cake. The sort that we have only had a few times and extremely simple at that. But this cake is more than we have ever had in our life. In fact, I think it’s…

“Carrot cake,” she says gruffly. I snigger at that. “Since you’re so obsessed with carrots I thought that you might like it. I had to trade my cookies for ‘em. Don’t rot your teeth. You’ll need to be smiling for the cameras.”

“Thank Ilia…” I say hoping she knows I mean it for more than the cake.

She scoffs, “I’ll tell your siblings where to find the carrots. If they get out of the house. I’ll let inform them of the trades because I’m just that great of a person and won’t try to trick them into a lesser trade.”

I laugh again, “Thank Ilia. You’re as solid as the great oak nobody cuts down.”

“Loser,” she says and then the Peacekeeper signals her that her turn is over.

My last guest is my mother. She wraps her arms around me and sobs. I am unsure what to feel. I truly do love my mother, truly. But I’ve walked to school with my siblings, been around the whole district, was only nine the last time my mother brushed Isadora’s hair or fixed a tie for Duncan or I. But I let none of this come up. My mother then takes my hands and puts a small pin there. I look at it. I can’t tell what it’s supposed to be but then I realise that the words ‘VFD’ are cleverly hidden there. I look questioning at my mum. Her brown eyes meet mine, hers soft and mine questioning. Her own tan hand caresses my olive one. And then she hugs me again. I am unsure what to feel. But I truly do love my mother, truly. So I tightly wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her shoulders. Finally the Peacekeeper comes in one last time and yanks us apart.

“Wear the pin at the arena. Just remember that the world is-” she says but she pulled away before she could finish. I just sit there. Hollow. I wonder what she was trying to tell me. The world is something. I am confused but I have no time to ponder before I am driven to the train station. I have never been on any sort of transportation apart from the wagons that we kids would sometimes jump onto while any adults would curse and yell.

The station is swarming with reporters with their cameras trained directly on my face. I just stare at the cameras and try to think about the cameras and hope that my emotions and thoughts don’t fall down right now. I catch a glimpse of myself on the television screen on the wall that’s airing my arrival live and see that I look like I feel. Empty, hollow and blank. Emotionless. Carmelita Spats looks haughty and disgusted at the cameras as if they were so below her and she couldn’t believe that such scum would dare to be even close to the perfection she is. I smile. Of course that’s what she was thinking.

We have to stand for a few minutes in the doorway of the train while the cameras are pointed t our faces. Carmelita sometimes gives a haughty smile and holds her nose high and turns away before looking back and giving a small wink. I stand awkwardly beside her and am unsure what to do. So I just stay hollow. I was never good at such things. Neither were my siblings.

Finally, we allowed inside and the doors close mercifully behind us. The train begins to move at once. The speed initially takes my breath away and I nearly trip. I am glad there are no cameras here because I’d look like a fool and I’d just flush which would make any impressions about me, if you could call that, sink lower than the even zero they were at.

But I’ve never been on a train. Only official stations that are watch closely can go in and out of the district. For us, that’s mainly transporting lumber and some other goods such as sap. But this is no ordinary lumber train. It’s one of the high-speed Capitol models that average 250 miles per hour. Our journey to the Capitol will take less than a day. It’s amazing. I wouldn’t mind learning to drive one. But that’s not even in my dreams, not the ones I have at neither night nor my never ending list of things I would want to do.

The tribute train is fancier than even the room in the Justice Building. We are each given our own chambers that have a bedroom, a dressing area, and a private bathroom with hot and cold running water. We don’t have hot water at home, unless we boil it. It’s a bother sometimes. We have our oven and wood. Then there’s putting it on fire and waiting at least an hour before its warm enough. In spring and summer we don’t bother. And in winter we don’t usually take showers for weeks at a time.

I marvel at the room. It’s beautifully crafted. Is that how everywhere at the Capitol is? Or in District 1, the luxury district?

There are drawers filled with fine clothes, and Ernest Denouement tells me to do anything I want, wear anything I want, everything is at my disposal. Just be ready for supper in an hour. I take off my father’s jeans and my shirt and take a hot shower. I’ve never had a shower before. It’s a nice experience. I like it. I take one longer than I should.

I dress in a white button up and a grey sweater with many pockets and pants. At the last minute, I remember Mum’s little silver pin. I stare at it and realise what it is. I am not sure whether to wear it but what else would my mother give me it for? If I can wear it at the arena then I can wear it here.

I fasten the pin onto my shirt. Ernest Denouement comes to collect me for supper. I follow him through the narrow, rocking corridor into a dining room with polished panelled walls. There’s a table where all the dishes are highly breakable. It’s just me and Ernest and Larry. Olivia and Carmelita are yet to arrive.

“Where’s Olivia? And Carmelita” asks Ernest Denouement with an air of easiness. I shrug. Carmelita finally arrives wearing a pink silky shirt and pants and pink boots. Her hair is tied up with a pink ribbon. Isadora has said to Carmelita that pink clashes with her hair but Carmelita said that writing crappy poems clashes with her one brain cell. That ended as well as it sounds that it would.

Olivia doesn’t arrive so we start dinner without her. I look up to see Ernest glances at Larry with a sort of suspicious sort of look at him. The supper comes in courses.

First it’s a carrot soup. If Ilia could see me then she’d snigger. What can I say? Carrots must love me as much as I love them. It’s thick and creamy and it fills me up nicely. Carmelita doesn’t stop herself from enjoying it too, delicately. Ernest brightly tells us that there’s more to come. Carmelita doesn’t fill herself and waits patiently for the next course taking a few tentative sips. But I try my best not to take the bowl and slurp it.

Next it’s a green salad followed by lamb chops and mashed potatoes (and because I drank the soup and ate the green salad heartily, I only touch the mashed potatoes and look sadly at what once was a beautiful baby sheep), cheese and fruit and lastly a chocolate cake. The chocolate cake reminds me of the carrot cake back in my chamber. Might save it for later since the chocolate cake is too good and beats my conscious telling me that it’s better to eat healthy food.

Now that the meal’s over, I’m fighting to keep the food down. Carmelita was the daughter of the mayor but even she hadn’t had such good food. But she ate tentatively so she looks perfectly composed. We go to another compartment to watch the recap of the reapings across Panem.

One by one, we see the other reapings, the names called, (the volunteers stepping forward or, more often, not). We examine the faces of the kids who will be our competition. A few stand out in my mind. A golden girl from District 1. A boy easily three times my size who volunteers before anyone else can from District 2. A girl from District 10 who looks demented. Our district shows Carmelita, in her pretty green dress and her uncaring father. Then me, Duncan having a panic attack behind and me grabbing him to worsen his situation so he doesn’t have the chance to be in my place. I see Ernest glancing at me and wonder what he was thinking.

I fear I will break down so halfway through District 9 I excuse myself and run off. I am in my chamber and feel sick. I grab the sink and my eyes start to water and finally my emotions crash down. And so do I.  


	3. Chapter 3: The Capitol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I awake sitting next to the bathroom sink. I rub my eyes blearily, trying to remember what had happened. Memories of endless sobs come crashing down and I pull my hair slightly but then stop in remembrance of Isadora doing the same thing in anger. It pains me to think of Isadora. I’m already missing her and Duncan.

I awake sitting next to the bathroom sink. I rub my eyes blearily, trying to remember what had happened. Memories of endless sobs come crashing down and I pull my hair slightly but then stop in remembrance of Isadora doing the same thing in anger. It pains me to think of Isadora. I’m already missing her and Duncan.

I shuffle up and groan, grabbing the sink to balance myself. Hopefully nobody cares that I didn’t return last night. I don’t mind sleeping next to the sink. I usually don’t fall asleep until I am exhausted. Guess I was exhausted. Extremely exhausted. Then I knock out hard and fall asleep anywhere. Once I fell asleep when I was seven on the pony ride a man was giving all the children in town.

I get out of the bathroom and into my chambers. I look around and see a beautiful marble clock. I gently touch it and see that the background was made from a lovely thing that shone with colours slightly but was mainly white and natural looking. The surface was irregular as well. I struggle to wonder what it was. I looked at the delicate silver hands like calligraphy that were pointed to the 5 and 24 marks.  Since I wasn’t called out so I decided to look around.

I see a bookshelf and I quickly walked over to it. Not many people wrote in case what they wrote came over as offensive or suspicious to the Capitol. Isadora and Duncan loved books more than me but I like to think that I’m quite well-read for someone living my life. District 7 people were well muscled from learning to use things like saws and axes since they were children and many were often rough and harsh from the lumber area.

I look over the books and find some. Anna Karenina, the Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Wuthering Heights, Little Women, Pride and Prejudice were only some that I looked over. I find an atlas and open it and gasp. It was an atlas of the old world. Now that was something I could get around reading.

I peer at the maps. Not the most beautiful maps but they show places quite well enough. I marvel at how big the world outside Panem is. If Panem could survive… then… Could there be some many places out there? My wides widen. I put the book down and lie on the stomach, splaying my fingers on my cheeks. My brain turns inside out as I wonder if other people could be out there.

If there was… Could one find them? I dare let a dangerous question cross my mind. Could… I find them?

My stomach tightens and I shake in excitement and nervousness. Millions of thoughts cross my mind. Suddenly I hear footsteps outside my compartment and it feels like there is a drain which has just been unplugged and whirls down like a whirlpool and ends which a huge whooshing sound. I look down.

No. I couldn’t find them. I’m heading off to my death. I feel hungry and wonder if I should call a Capitol person. There are numbers on the wall to call anyone for anything I want. Cook. Clean. Bath. Guard. Talk to. Anything.

But I am not sure if I want to. So instead I take out my carrot cake and smile at it. I pick up and slice and eat it. It’s well baked and light yet filling, a sweet carroty taste to it. I laugh but don’t eat any more. I’ll be called for breakfast so I shouldn’t fill myself but instead save for later.

But even if I am heading to my death, imagination takes me away. I find a few more books on geography and history. I open one history one with many pictures. I see a ship called the Titanic and gently touch it. I look at it routes. I find another ship which sails half way across the world. And I know I shouldn’t but I imagine about sailing and finding new lands. Somewhere free. Somewhere beautiful. Somewhere peaceful. Somewhere quiet.

And I’d take Duncan and Isadora as well. And Duncan would be dazzled learning about historical things. And Isadora would get inspiration for poems. And we’d build a house with a huge library. Filled with books that we find because we must have found books. And filled with books we’ve written. And we’d be someone. I’d be someone.

It’ll be all I ever wanted and more.

And what we’d find. Foreign plants. Foreign animals. I have spent my life eating pine cones and other plants which weren’t quite tasty but edible. I could find more.

And the animals. I could get adopt more pets. I am reminded of my fox and feel my heart ache a little. I know Duncan and Isadora would take care of them.

For a while I stand staring out the train window. I think about the people in District 7, those not already awake awakening, ready for work. Life would go on as always. My reaping wasn’t a special one except for those who know me well. I imagine my home. What are they doing now, my mother and siblings? Were they able to eat supper? The steak, chopped vegetable and cheese which I have no doubt had been made into a stew. Or did it lay untouched? Was my mother already out and about? Did they sleep? Did they watch the recap of the day’s events on the battered old TV that sits on the table against the wall yesterday? Surely, there were more tears. Duncan and Isadora would be sleeping together, that I’m sure of. Ilia promised me that she’d help my siblings and that I’m glad of. Has Ilia always been my friend? I was initially intimidated by her like everyone else. Ever after I would ask her for trading ideas I considered her to break my neck if I annoyed her. Everyone thought her a brute but… that cake and the promise has be reconsidering ever thing I once though I knew.

I wonder if my fox understands the situation. They are a good fox and have never ever been trouble apart from a couple of times. I wish I could talk to her even if we wouldn’t be able to understand each other.

Imagining my home makes me ache with loneliness. I wonder how Carmelita feels next door. Could Carmelita and I have just been wondering around the District trading my goods yesterday?

Suddenly I hear old rapping on the door. I hear Ernest Denouement’s voice, calling me to rise. “Up, up, up! It’s going to be a big, big, big day!” I get up and decide to keep wearing the clothes I am in since there is no reason not to apart from the fact I have other clothes to wear. I look down at the pin on my collar and trace it.

We can’t be far from the Capitol now. And once we reach the city, my stylist will dictate my look for the opening ceremonies tonight. I wonder who I could get but then remember some of the costumes I’ve seen and shudder. This puts a wet cloth on my morning.

As I enter the dining car, Ernest Denouement brushes by me with a cup of black coffee. He’s muttering under his breath and looks in a foul mood. Ernest Denouement doesn’t have any particular personality I could point out. He’s friendly and cheerful but bored and looks like he’d rather do something else but polite and composed. Larry is eating some eggs and Olivia is finally here and having sausages.

“Sit down! Sit down!” says Larry, waving me over. The moment I slide into my chair I’m served an enormous platter of food. Eggs, some meat, piles of fried potatoes. A tureen of fruit sits in ice to keep it chilled. The basket of rolls they set before me would keep my family going for a week. There’s an elegant glass of orange juice. At least, I think its orange juice. Carmelita once bought me orange juice. I shake it off. Thinking about how Carmelita is my opponent is too much and I’m afraid I could break down. A cup of coffee. We’ve tasted coffee once and we were only ten back then. Duncan liked it but Isadora and I had to disagree. A rich brown cup of something I’ve never seen.

I take a sip of the hot, sweet, creamy liquid and decided I need to finish this. After I finish whatever it was, I start to eat. When my stomach feels like it’s about to split open, I look at everyone else. Carmelita was wearing a different pink outfit and was drinking the coffee gently while Larry was inspecting the food and Olivia was also eating.

“So, you’re supposed to give us advice,” I say to them carefully.

Larry nods.  Olivia glances up and keeps eating. Carmelita looks up at them.

“Well?” she demands. They turn to her and she looks impatient. “Any advice? Or will we have to do everything by ourselves?” Larry and Olivia look taken aback.

“Well, once we arrive there, you’ll be handed over to your stylers. Let them do what they think is right,” I glance at Olivia and she goes back to eating.

Larry looks in thought for a moment and then tells us to stand up and stand next to each other over to where his finger points. We both do. Larry examines us. His face is deep in concentration.

“Hm… we have arrived so once we make it I’d like the two of you to tell me about any skills you have then.”

Carmelita and I look out of the windows to see if we have. I see that, yes, we have arrived. There are mountains which form a natural barrier between the Capitol and the eastern districts. It is almost impossible to enter from the east except through the tunnels, although I’d like the look over them. This geographical advantage was a major factor in the districts losing the war that led to my being a tribute today. Since the rebels had to scale the mountains, they were easy targets for the Capitol’s air forces.

We are alone in darkness. I feel nervous in the tunnels. But after what felt like hours but was just minutes, sunlight burst through the windows. The Capitol, the ruling city of Panem. There are huge fancy towers and so much technology. And people in all shapes and sizes wearing the oddest clothing in our opinion. Even Carmelita looks disgruntled at the fashion and I once saw her wearing bushes on top of her clothes. The people begin to point at us eagerly as they recognize a tribute train rolling into the city.

I step away from the window, my stomach flipping. A surge of anger rushes through me, knowing they can’t wait to watch us die. I hope mine is as uneventful as the year everyone froze to death. But Carmelita holds her ground, actually blowing kisses and smirking snootily at the crowd at the gawking crowd. She only stops when the train pulls into the station, blocking us from their view. She sees me staring at her and crosses her arms. “Seriously, you dumbass, one of them could be damn rich and sponsor me. You ought to take a book out of my page. Although I’m sure that they’d be more interested in me than you. No other tribute would be noticed since I am the most adorable.”

Larry still looks like he’s thinking. I feel like he’ll be thinking a long time.

 

 

 

If there is one thing I hate it is being entrapped. I have never gotten in another person’s personal space and I would be obliged if the gesture was returned. But I don’t believe people here know what personal space is. I have been scrubbed, yanked, been covered with all sorts of cream and have been washed of them and I don’t like it. My prep team was pleased that my nails were already quite long. In District 7 many people keep their nails long.

“Are your eyes naturally so green or are you wearing lenses?” a woman asks put her face right in mine to look at my eyes.

 “Um… yes… Nobody back at home has any lenses. Nobody tries to look pretty,” I then add, “Like you guys,” as an afterthought. I brace myself for whatever reaction I could be getting.

They all gasp and a man pets me on the shoulder. “Poor you. Don’t worry, once our stylist gets you into your clothes then you’ll look wonderful. I’m glad that we got someone quite pleasant this year. Sometimes we get people so horrible that we couldn’t help feel sorry for them.”

 I feel mad and am about to say something that I am sure I would regret but then they all dart out of the room, one of them calling over their shoulder that they will be calling. I feel my face tighten in a scowl so I opt to look around the styling room and wait for my stylist.

A man suddenly comes in. My eyes widen. He looks… nothing like I thought he would. Not that I had any particular thoughts of how they would look but I imagined that they’d look like another colourful thing among their other fellow colourful things. He has unibrow and was tall. Blond hair slicked back and a formal suit. My eyes glance down to my ankle. An eye.

 “Hello, Quigley. I’m Jacques, your stylist,” he says in a quiet voice.

“Hi,” I say carefully.

“Follow me,” he beckons. I comply. Two red couches face off over a low table. Three walls are blank, the fourth is entirely glass, providing a window to the city. I glance outside and wonder about how life would be here. I decided that I wouldn’t want to live here. If a bird is in a cage of gold it still cannot be considered free. If I grew up here though, then would I be the same? Would I even consider this golden cage a cage? Jacques invites me to sit on one of the couches and takes his place across from me. He presses a button on the side of the table. The top goes away which I don’t even want to think about and the second layer of table holds food. Some strappy sort of things are piled and drenched in creamy pale sauce, while white chunks of chicken and mushroom are placed all around it. What looks like a loaf of bread which cut and put around the plate and is yellow in the middle, and for dessert is a jelly of many different coloured, shining like gem stones.

Who makes these things? How is life in the Capitol? Do people actually work here? Does someone actually cook these things for a living? Are they different ranks of position? Could there even be someone considered poor?

 Jacques then says that he was wondering about what I would be wearing for the opening ceremony. For the opening ceremonies, you’re supposed to wear something that suggests your district’s principal industry. District 12, coal. District 9, grain. District 6, transportation. This means that coming from District 7, Carmelita and I will be in clothes wih a lumber sort of aesthetic to them. Usually people from District 7 end up in tree costumes. Tree costumes if we happen to not be particularly becoming and vine costumes which we do. I feel like I am somewhere in the middle. A tree costume with vines?

I don’t want to think about it. I wonder if Duncan and Isadora will see me tonight and I don’t want to think about that either. “Will I be in a hollow tree?” I ask, bluntly, not trying to be particularly anything.

“Not quite,” He says.

                                                

 

 

A few hours later, I am dressed in clothes that look like the texture of a tree (because what else?). A slightly mossy tree with vines coming up to my face. But the main thing was all the crystallized sap which shone like gemstones because some fireflies were encased in them. My face is relatively clear of makeup, just a bit of highlighting here and there and some vines painted on my face. Shiny three boots with sap crystallized in mid pour. My hair has been styled into some messy hairstyle with gel.

I’m happy when Carmelita shows up, dressed in an identical costume but with more sap and slightly more exaggerated but still good. Her stylist, Esme, and her team accompany the young girl in, and everyone is excited to see the crowd’s reactions. Esme is a tall woman who gushes about how ‘in’ the costume is. If my eyes aren’t mistaken I think Carmelita has some sort of respect for Esme. And Esme talks about how Carelita is an absolutely darling little girl then... weoll al carmelita has ever wanted must be a fashionable woman cal Carmelita swishes and twirls and compliments herself. Jacques looks a little nervous and I am dreading being on the chariots because I know I’ll feel foolish waving at people and smiling at them. I am similar with Duncan in this aspect. Both of us are not shy nor do we have any problem being in front of people as long as we’re allowed to be ourselves. Isadora is better at us than being confident because she is confident. Not that Isadora is a good actor or anything. She’s confident but very passionate, taking small things as a poke on her character, a personal insult. But all of our poker faces, if we aren’t somewhere where we are able to adapt to, are horrible.

I find myself thinking about them again before shaking. Now isn’t the time to think about them.

We’re taken down to the bottom level of the Remake Centre, where all the horses are kept. The opening ceremonies are about to start. Pairs of tributes are being loaded into chariots pulled by four horses. Ours are an elegant brown. Like polished carved wood, instead of lumber and trees. I think about a costume in inspiration to polish carved wood. That could be appealing but I believe it concentrates on a single aspect of wood instead of the main idea and could be thought as unsatisfactory. Then again, if the Capitol people are as mindless as they look they’d be dazzled all the same. For some reason I decide to tell this to Carmelita, as we get onto the chariot and Jacques and Esme look over us. She ponders this for moment but then says that she’d look good in everything and was bound to win the crowd over.

“Ernest and Larry are nowhere to be seen,” Carmelita ponders to herself.  That was what I was thinking.

The opening music begins. It’s easy to hear, blasted around the Capitol. Massive doors slide open revealing the crowd lined streets. The ride lasts about twenty minutes and ends up at the City Circle, where they will welcome us, play the anthem, and escort us into the Training Centre, which will be our home until the Games begin. Hah! I’d rather be stuck in a bird cage.

…

…

No actually... not really… I don’t see how is that better seeing that either way I am being held by captors and if I was in a bird cage then it would just make me claustrophobic.

The tributes from District 1 ride out in a chariot pulled by snow-white horses. District 1 makes luxury items for the Capitol. You can hear the roar of the crowd.

After District 6 rolls out, we are just about to too. I try to steady myself and remind myself that I couldn’t care less about this whole ordeal. I’m not winning and I have better things to do than amuse people who are excited to see me die as violent as it gets.

But as I sigh and slouch Carmelita stomps on my foot. I yelp and glare at her. I last thing I hear is her whispering furiously that my attitude would affect her chances on fame. I want to retort about her being famous not going to work but we enter the city.

I contemplate about whether or not to listen to Carmelita like Duncan would, not bothering with such a petty thing in such circumstances, or tell her to get lost like Isadora would, no matter what circumstances. Neither of them would actually be blowing kisses or grinning dazzlingly.

I only realised what I was tuning out just then and gasped quietly. Thousands of people were looking at us. Our costumes were a piece of art no matter how ridiculous I feel in them. I look at us in one of the cameras and bit my lip. Carmelita kicks my foot slightly. I give a pathetic excuse of a smile and barely lift my fingers to wave. But I give up just then and just stand there while Carmelita waves and grins and blows kisses to the crowd who adore her. 

The twelve chariots fill the loop of the City Circle. On the buildings that surround the Circle, every window is packed with the most prestigious citizens of the Capitol. Our horses pull our chariot right up to a mansion, and we come to a halt. The music ends with a flourish. The president gives the official welcome from a balcony above us. I tune out (have I mentioned I am good at tuning out stuff?) everything until the doors of the Training Centre shut us in.

I look at the other tributes wile Prep teams surround us all. Carmelita start quietly ranting about how I was useless and about how she obviously didn’t need me and that she dazzled the crowd but I was still useless.

Before I decided to tune out again I told her I couldn’t care less. She let out a bitter laugh.

I wonder if I could tune my way out of the Hunger Games. Obviously enough to win but enough to live until I die.


End file.
